Fallen Stars
by Edith Brereton
Summary: First-person suicide of Javert. I took creative liberties.


_"It is done."_

The words rip through my otherwise restrained thoughts as I watch my men tear through what could have been a disaster. One less revolution, they say in the alleys; one less law broken, in my eyes. Is the law not the root of all society, the one thing that holds us together through all madness? I find that I cannot concentrate; indeed, I am nearly driven to madness by this _man, _this _monster... _Jean Valjean.

His actions haunt me as I try to sleep; his actions linger even in my most composed moments. I am not a compassionate creature, nor am I subject to spontaneous bursts of emotion; I am controlled, more stoic than the statues of ancient empires if I wish to be so. Empathy is beyond my knowledge, for all I have known is the law and those wretched, disgusting beasts who break it. I am a child of this sin, as atrocious as it is, and it has become my one reason for living to see that all who are animals are exposed as such.

But what of Valjean? I have followed him throughout the years with a ferocity that travels beyond the boundaries of any other rational man, or any man with some other love poisoning his mind. I have seen the worst of him – he is clever, dangerous, almost as ambitious as I with a mind almost as sharp. Yet I cannot comprehend his actions. This man has not yet murdered me – but why does this pardon exist? Did I not show him how I despise him, how I will stop at nothing to lock him away forever? Still he released me, untied my ropes and fired the condemning shot without penetrating my skin. I understand nothing.

I wait for him at the riverside as he buys the pardon of young Marius, the "revolutionary" who has stolen his child away. Oh yes, I protested enough, but why do I act as such a difficult being? Did I not wish for him? Now he comes within inches of my grasp and I cannot be satisfied. Nothing brightens my spirit. I am truly soulless.

I etch the words to my superior as I wait, for I know what I must do. The moment seems to last an eternity as I wait in silence that had once been my refuge. Or perhaps an ally, for I never needed shelter from anything. At last Valjean returns and we are alone; _he is mine. His fate is in my hands. In that way, I have won._

He is too willing to accept his fate as he stands beside me at the river's edge. I let my gun collide with his jaw for a moment simply to know what victory would have felt like for a man with feeling; he seems unafraid, though I know him to be terrified of death as all men are. "I feel nothing," he tells me.

"You do not despise me?" There is the damning question. _John Valjean, my nemesis, why do you not loath me after all I have done to you? Do you not understand what has happened to you because of me? _It torments me, imagining his answer.

"No. I don't think I do." The worst answer one could expect! O, my death! Why do you seek me so soon, when I am more and less than I have ever been?

More meaningless words. Words and words and the end of all hope. "The law knows no justice, 24601. Remember that the law must be fulfilled, that I am sparing you a life of misery and chains..."

I steal his handcuffs without thinking, and his expression is overcome with nothing less than horror. I stride back to my place – my resting place – and let them latch to my wrist, knowing that _I _am the true criminal, that _I _am the wolf disguised as a lamb. Everything courses through my head in that moment, and I am compelled to fall on my knees and weep, but I stay silent, composed. I am trembling as I dare to catch a final glimpse of Valjean's face, his eyes – such eyes! Haunting me with their misery! How they murder me!

I fall backward and meet my destiny, the punishment that has been mine since my existence, that deathly irony that the law brings me, the caress and travesty of justice. Blue envelopes me, engulfs me, sucks the last piece of life from my body as I willingly sacrifice myself to the greed that had overtaken me, the catacomb that was ambition. Black and black and black. _You have won, Valjean. It is done._

Nothingness.


End file.
